How fast she asked questions, and how Linnet talked and laughed and brushed a tear away now and then!  Was there ever so much to tell before?  Miss Prudence had her questions to ask; and Morris’ mother, who had been coaxed to come in to the grate, steamer chair and all, had many questions to ask about her boy.

Marjorie was searching her through and through to discover if marriage and travel had changed her; but, no, she was the same happy, laughing Linnet; full of bright talk and funny ways of putting things, with the same old attitudes and the same old way of rubbing Marjorie’s fingers as she talked.  Marriage had not spoiled her.  But had it helped her?  That could not be decided in one hour or two.

When she was quiet there was a sweeter look about her mouth than there had ever used to be; and there was an assurance, no, it was not so strong as that, there was an ease of manner, that she had brought home with her.  Marjorie was more her little sister that ever.

Marjorie laughed to herself because everything began with Linnet’s husband and ended in him:  the stories about Genoa seemed to consist in what Will said and did; Will was the attraction of Naples and the summit of Mt.  Vesuvius; the run down to Sicily and the glimpse of Vesuvius were somehow all mingled with Will’s doings; the stories about the priest at Naples were all how he and Will spent hours and hours together comparing their two Bibles; and the tract the priest promised to translate into Italian was “The Amiable Louisa” that Will had chosen; and, when the priest said he would have to change the title to suit his readers, Will had suggested “A Moral Tale.”  This priest was confessor to a noble family in the suburbs; and once, when driving out to confess them, had taken Will with him, and both had stayed to lunch.  The priest had given them his address, and Will had promised to write to him; he had brought her what he called his “paintings,” from his “studio,” and she had pinned them up in her little parlor; they were painted on paper and were not remarkable evidences of genius.  Not quite the old masters, although painted in Italy by an Italian.  His English was excellent; he was expecting to come to America some day.  A sea captain in Brooklyn had a portrait of him in oil, and when Miss Prudence went to New York she must call and see it; Morris and he were great friends.  That naughty Will had asked him one day if he never wished to marry, and he had colored so, poor fellow, and said, ‘It is better to live for Christ.’  And Will had said he hoped he lived for Christ, too.  The priest had a smooth face and a little round spot shaven on top of his head.  She used to wish Marjorie might see that little round spot.

And the pilot, they had such a funny pilot!  When anything was passed him at the table, or you did him a favor, he said “thank you” in Italian and in English.

And how they used to walk the little deck!  And the sunsets!  She had to confess that she did not see one sunrise till they were off Sandy Hook coming home.  But the moonlight on the water was most wonderful of all!  That golden ladder rising and falling in the sea!  They used to look at it and talk about home and plan what she would do in that little house.